


Learning to Breathe

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff, Anxiety, Derogatory Names, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Feelings Realization, Growth, Helplessness, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hope, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pureblood Elitists, Redemption, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-09-28 01:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Immediately post-war, Hermione realizes that the wizarding world still thinks she’s less than. They may have defeated Voldemort, but his elitist beliefs still plague Britain. She’s returned to Hogwarts for her eighth year, but memories of the war still haunt her. So, when Draco Malfoy approaches her to apologize for the horrible things he’s done to her since first year, despite not believing his sincerity, Hermione accepts his apology. She never expected it to turn into something more.





	1. The Mudblood Bitch

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [DramioneFanfictionForum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramioneFanfictionForum/pseuds/DramioneFanfictionForum) in the [2019SoundsLikeDramione](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2019SoundsLikeDramione) collection. 

> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, but are property of JKR and Warner Bros and no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> Incredible love to my alpha, mcal, and my beta, Lunamionny, for all their help, encouragement, and love as I struggled through writing this fic. <3
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
> "There's so much left to learn, and no one left to fight..."  
Broken - Seether (feat. Amy Lee)

The first time she realized that the world hadn’t changed with Voldemort’s death, Hermione Granger was in The Ministry receiving her Order of Merlin, First Class. Her hands were laced together with Ron and Harry’s and they smiled as Bozo flashed his camera at their faces. It felt special. She felt respected. And, most importantly of all, she felt vindicated. No one would ever question her place in the Wizarding World again. 

Those feelings lasted only an hour. 

As the trio made their way through the Ministry’s corridors after their photo opportunity, Hermione came face to face with a sallow face, framed with black hair and inlaid with snarling lips. A Death Eater for sure, but not one that she’d ever met before. He glared at her as if she’d personally offended him, hatred clear in the dark glint of his eyes. His teeth snapped in her direction like a mad dog. 

“Mudblood bitch,” the man spat at her. “Filth!”

Though he was forced out of her path and dragged away through the Ministry halls, the damage was done. They may have defeated Voldemort, but they hadn’t defeated the disease that spread his beliefs.

Hermione Granger knew that she’d only ever be one thing to the Wizarding World: a mudblood.

What was worse: the cursed scar on her arm confirmed as much.

Her friends rallied around her, but it only made her feel worse. When she received a sealed scroll from an official Hogwarts owl, Hermione jumped at the opportunity to return back to school as an eighth year. Harry and Ron thought she was mental for returning to school and rejecting the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's offer to fast-track their auror training. Instead of accepting the Ministry’s offer like Harry and Ron, Hermione owled Headmistress McGonagall to confirm her acceptance to attend the special eighth year program for students affected by the war. She corresponded with the Headmistress for two weeks straight in order to confirm the details and to arrange to arrive earlier than her classmates.

The headmistress thought her eagerness to return to school was commendable. Hermione thought it was necessary to her survival. 

After the fall of Voldemort, The Burrow had felt suffocating. Fred was dead, Bill and George’s disfigurements were constant reminders of what they’d survived, and Ron had kissed her. She hated all the pressure that came with that kiss. Molly seemed to always appear whenever they were alone, whether it was the kitchen or the sitting room or even degnoming the garden. It was frustrating — as if Hermione was going to toss away her entire future by having children at seventeen. No way. 

Worse than The Burrow was the home that her mum and dad returned to in Watford. Photographs on the walls without Hermione’s face. An entire room dedicated to crafts instead of their daughter. It hurt more than she cared to admit; her mum and dad didn’t trust her despite having their memories restored successfully. They promised that it would only take time, but weeks had passed since she’d heard from them. 

She wanted to get back to studying at school. Back to the familiarity of the corridors of Hogwarts. The library in particular, her home away from home, called to her.

So, when it was time to floo into the headmistress’s office, Hermione barely said goodbye to the Weasleys as she disappeared in a sooty mess, the destination “Hogwarts!” falling excitedly from her lips.

Hermione ate in the Great Hall, went to her lessons, and walked through the halls at a leisurely pace. The only time she hastened her steps was when she recognized a place where someone was killed. Where Fred took his final breath, where Tonks and Lupin fell. So many of the people she loved had been killed in battle. Her brain tried to compartmentalize, but sometimes the memories were so strong that she could smell the burnt fabric or hear a vicious cry of the KIlling Curse cut through the air. So, she spent an embarrassing amount of time in the library. She didn’t need a social life to be happy, and the extra time to study was a luxury that she hadn’t been afforded enough during her first six years. Things were quiet now. 

Sometimes, things were too quiet.

When the shared eighth year common room and dorms were filled with students, the stillness of the library was a comfort to her. Whatever McGonagall’s intentions, her poor judgement about the maturity of the older students made Hermione’s days longer and harder. All of the eighth year students that came back to Hogwarts had a shared common room. All houses accounted for in the decor that seemed haphazardly strewn about the room. The comforts of Gryffindor Tower with the oversized arm chairs, Hufflepuff yellow bean bag seats, Slytherin hearths in cool silver etchings, and a replica of The Stacks in Ravenclaw Tower, all had a place in the large common area.

But, Hermione didn’t want to sit in a room and pretend that everything was fine, drink firewhiskey like an alcoholic, and then stumble into a bed with some sex-crazed Slytherin. So, she lived out of the library and revelled in the desperate beauty of the written word.

She was hours-deep into a fascinating dissertation on the rune Eihwaz, and its properties when used in wandlore, when her post-war life changed in the most peculiar way.

She looked up to see Draco Malfoy, with hair cropped shorter than she’d ever seen and crisp robes of black with emerald trim, standing over her table. He was so quiet, Hermione wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there. Her eyes met his, steel on coffee, and she pursed her lips before silently returning her attention back to the tome clutched in her hands.

Draco cleared his throat. It was a respectful and unobtrusive sound but Hermione just shifted in her seat and pretended not to hear him. However, with every scratch of moving robes, it was harder to ignore his persistent hovering. She sighed, placed a marker in the book, and laid her hands palm down on the table. Her spine twisted to the side and she let her gaze meander from his hips to his eyes.

Served him right, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

It was the least he could do.

They stared at one another for a long moment. When it was apparent that neither were going to break the silence, Hermione lifted a brow, gesturing for him to get on with it. It was the only nicety that she wanted to provide and even then, it was forced.

He stepped forward, closing in on her space, and she flinched. Draco stopped, took a deep breath, and rounded the table to sit across from her instead. As he tucked himself into the table, Hermione took a second to really look at him in detail. Taut lips, reserved gaze, hair just a touch darker than it had been all through their school years, as if he hadn’t seen sunlight in years.

When he opened his mouth to speak, she snapped her gaze back to his eyes and watched him carefully. If he spoke one word against her blood, she’d hex him.

“I apologize.” His tone was low, masked in a husky whisper, and nearly disappeared in the space between them. 

Hermione leaned forward with her hands on the table and strained to hear him. Her tone, in contrast to his, was unafraid and blunt. “You’re going to have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

She watched him struggle. Watched his nostrils flare and his lips twitch into a tight pucker before relaxing back into a straight line. He raised his hand to his hair, jostled it, and then picked at a spot on his robes. He breathed purposefully and she recognized the rhythm — in for four through the nose, out for six through the mouth. He was practicing deep breathing as a form of emotional management.

It surprised her.

“And I’m afraid that there’s not enough time in the day to be as specific as one needs,” Draco responded monotonously. “You see, my apology is meant as all encompassing. From the shite things I called you in first year up through the — what my aunt did to you at the manor. I am deeply sorry for all of it, genuinely.”

She was struck. Lungs seized. Shoulders tense. Hermione waited for the punchline, for someone to jump out of the stacks and call her a fool. But nothing happened. For minutes, the silence stretched between them while she tried to process every word he said. Did he mean them? Why did he care? There didn’t appear to be an ulterior motive, but then she wasn’t a naive school child any longer.

There was always a motive. Always.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to attack you,” he hissed and then sucked in a breath so deep his shoulders rose. “I’m sorry. Again. For what it’s worth, Granger, I would really appreciate a fresh slate. A chance to make amends.”

“Why?” Her hands balled into fists and she crossed her arms. 

He leaned forward, chest level with the solid oak table between them and flashed her a smile. She’d never seen him smile before, not without menace. It looked displaced. Like he hadn’t ever smiled much at all and was practicing how to do it.

“Because I’ve realized that a lot of the choices I’ve made have been detrimental to both myself and other people.” Draco reached a hand across the table for her to shake. It hung there between them while she eyed it skeptically without moving a muscle to grasp it. “I’m not asking to be friends. I am asking for you to allow me to change.”

“You don’t need my permission,” she informed him, still watching the way his hand lingered over the table. It twitched imperceptibly. She wondered if it was a sign of dishonesty. “If you want to change, that’s on you. Not me.”

“Right.” He withdrew his hand and slid it against his robes under the table. She’d gone through the motion enough herself to recognize when someone was hiding slick palms. “Sometimes forgiveness is a two person job. I should have known that you wouldn’t be ready so soon.”

The chair scuffed against the ground as he pushed himself away. Hermione watched him rise and brought her lip between her teeth. He’d extended an olive branch, but now he was closing down; the sincerity was fading from his face. She was aware that she was directly responsible for this moment, for the sheer loss he felt at having his effort to make amends be so resolutely rejected s. Not unlike how she’d felt when her parents’ memories were restored and they’d asked her for time to digest her actions.

“Wait.” Hermione unfurled her hands and held them out to stop him from leaving. He stood as still as a thick tree in the wind. Only his eyes moved to meet hers. She tried to lift her lips in a kind smile, but even she could tell that it fell short. Baby steps. “Would you, er, like to study with me?”

His shoulders loosened visibly and he responded to her offer with a curl of his lips. Not unpleasant, maybe thankful even. Draco sat back in the chair opposite her and grimaced. He patted down his robes and withdrew a shorter wand than she’d seen him use in the past.

Of course, Harry had wrested his old wand from him in a scuffle at the manor. Hermione breathed sharply through her nose, forcing the memory away and squeezing her eyes shut until it disappeared from her thoughts.

“Accio rucksack,” Draco whispered, jabbing his wand out to the side. It took a full minute, but his bag zipped into the library and crashed into his outstretched hand. “Runes? I’ve decided to write my paper on Mannaz.”

“When I study, I do so silently,” she advised him as she cracked open the dissertation she’d started earlier. Her finger traced down the page as his replying snort filled the space between them.

She was relieved when he didn’t attempt to rope her into any conversation about their homework. When she took out her scroll and began scribbling, she could feel his eyes on her but refused to engage with him. As a quiet man, Draco was tolerable. Hermione didn’t want to ruin her entire evening by tempting the beast.

So, when she finished her schoolwork, Hermione silently packed up her bag and left the library. Not a word to Draco, nor a spare glance in his direction.

The castle was so familiar to her after all these years, that she wandered through the corridor without having to consider the turns she was making. Hermione knew precisely how many steps there were between the library and the first staircase, how many stairs she had to climb, when the staircase would swing to allow her to skip an additional two minute walk on the fifth floor. The swamp laid by Fred and George during her fifth year still blocked off part of the corridor; McGonagall had declared that it was ‘a reminder of what it means to be Gryffindor in the face of tyranny’.

At the thought of Fred, she came to an abrupt halt. Her feet toed the mossy, wet edge of the sectioned-off swamp.

His face flashed through her mind; his beaming smile, that playful wink, the way he’d search a room for her when she entered it. She remembered once, when she’d been so upset over Ron, Fred had charmed his ginger hair to mimic the texture of hers. She’d never laughed so hard in her life.

And he was gone. All that was left were memories. This swamp. This moment.

The walls began to close in on her. The light from the torches flickered and her vision swam with their movement. Her hand clutched at her tie and she yanked at the knot until it finally loosened under her panicked movements. But it wasn’t enough. She needed to breathe and she needed to sit before her legs collapsed from beneath her.

She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and used both her hands to yank her collar away from the base of her throat. No matter how much she moved it away from her neck, it still felt as if something was clawing at her throat and trying to suffocate her from the inside.

Hermione’s shaking hands flew to her hair as she backed into the stone wall behind her. Her fingers curled at the roots as if the desperate movement would help her remember how to breathe.

“Not here,” she whispered as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Not here. Not here. Not here.”

With her heart raging against her sternum, Hermione tried to take a step forward. To push herself away from the wall and force her feet toward the shared eighth year common room. A sharp pain shot from her navel to her shoulder and she buckled to the ground. Hands and knees scuffed against the unforgiving flagstones, she cried out; from the pain and from her devastation.

Fred’s name fell from her lips just as she heard a set of footsteps approaching her from behind. Her mouth trembled as she forced herself up and swiped at the tears in her eyes. 

The person who approached her was not Draco, as she suspected he might follow her from the library to harass her further, but a younger boy with longer brown hair that curled around his ears and wide-set eyes. He donned Slytherin robes, less pristine than Draco’s but still crisp as if freshly laundered.

“What’s wrong with you?” The sneer on his face was classic ‘upper-class, privileged Slytherin’. Hermione’s shoulders tightened further and she crushed her robes into her balled up fists. “Has the Mudblood been crying?”

Her bottom lip dropped. Her mouth was parched. Her first Instinct was to grab her wand and hex the git. But that instinct was thrust aside because her ears still felt as if they were filled with cotton and the hallway was continuing to sway.

“No quick retort from the brightest witch of the age?” He laughed cruelly and stepped forward. She paced back. “Finally going mental, Mudblood?”

He stepped again and so did she, the back of her heel coming up against the edge of the swamp. Trapped. Her chest heaved under a strained breath. She tried to tell him to leave, that his words couldn’t hurt her. But nothing left her mouth except another panting breath.

It felt like impending doom, like the world was closing in around her and all she could hear was thundering thoughts circuiting her mind.

The Slytherin boy snorted. His hands rested on the lapels of his robes and his lips curled up into a malicious smile. “You’re so weak, aren’t you? No Potter here to save you. Weak, nasty mugglespawn.”

“Stop.” Hermione wasn’t sure if the word actually left her, or if it only resounded in her own head. Her hands quaked as she tried to find her wand. She couldn’t remember which pocket, which side. Every thought she had fizzled out before it made sense.

The Slytherin laughed at her again and mimicked her shaking hands. “You’re pathetic — nothing special after all, are you, Mudblood?”

Her fingers wrapped around the porous wood of her wand and she brandished it directly at the boy’s chest. The tip of the wand shook despite every effort she made to keep it steady.

The boy immediately aimed his wand at her in response, level and threatening. “No one’s afraid of you. While you were camping with Saint Potter, the rest of us were here, training with the Carrows, you know.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how it happened, but one moment, the sixth year was in front of her, and the next he was sprawled on the floor. Malfoy pinned the boy to the hard stone with his knees and struck the younger boy with flailing fists.

“Think you’re a badass, do you, Baddock?” Wham, knuckles straight into his jaw. Malfoy growled and held him up by the collar of his shirt. His teeth bared. “Not so tough now, mate.”

She watched, transfixed,  _ aching _ , and mute. Draco continued his assault mercilessly until his body went suddenly, inexplicably rigid and he collapsed to Baddock’s side.

Hermione looked up and saw a figure in Ravenclaw robes approaching the scene, his wand aimed at the two Slytherins. She quickly realized the two boys had been stunned. Her breath whooshed out of her and her knees wobbled. Her entire body felt faint.

Michael Corner leaned over the heap of bodies on the ground and flicked his gaze to a stricken Hermione. “What happened, Hermione?”

She flinched, expecting a slur from him, too. Hermione swallowed around a knot in her throat that felt like it was made of glass and closed her eyes as she drew a deep breath in through her nose, and then exhaled it steadily through pursed lips.

“Well?” Michael demanded, swishing his wand and arranging Malfoy and Baddock against the corridor wall. “Why did Malfoy attack a housemate?”

Her eyes fell to Malfoy’s face, still tense despite being unconscious. “I think Draco Malfoy just defended my honor.”

Michael raised a curious brow in her direction and then dropped his gaze down again. Hermione chewed her lip and swiped her clammy hands against her robes. She couldn’t stay there. Didn’t want to be around when they were rennervated. Avoiding Micheal’s gaze, she spun on her heel, just shy of splashing into the swamp, and swept through the corridor towards the common rooms.

When she got to the portrait of the knight who guarded their common room, she whispered the password with a hoarse voice and ignored the call of her friends as she rushed through the common room to her dorm. She closed the curtains around her bed and placed a spell on them for privacy.

She cried into her pillow until she fell asleep.


	2. A Shrine to Harry Potter

When Hermione sat at breakfast the following morning, it was a somber affair.  Hermione decided to sit on her own for breakfast, away from the ever-concerned gaze of Ginny and the fervent gossiping whispers of Parvati. She needed to be alone.

She grabbed two half slices of toast, a small portion of eggs, and two sausages from a nearby silver tray. It was routine, it was comfortable. Ginny would often tease her that not slathering her toast with jam was almost a criminal offense, but Hermione preferred not to faff about with her food. Simple, easy, routine.

She had just taken a bite of her toast when the air around her shifted. A slender body with emerald green stitched on the hem of his black school jumper dropped into the space next to her. Her eyes widened as she pulled the toast away from her lips and rolled the bite around her mouth.

Hermione wasn’t sure if he was pretending not to notice the curious glances thrown his way or if he genuinely didn’t realize that almost every set of eyes in the Great Hall were upon them. Student and professor alike. Watching. Staring. Whispering.

She choked down her toast and licked her lips before she canted her head in his direction.

He piled his plate with food. Eyes tight at the corners, even though his lips twitched under her stare. He poked a sausage with his fork and turned to face her.

“Alright, Granger?” Malfoy bit into his sausage, lips twisted into a smirk as he chewed, apparently ignorant of the glares he was receiving.

Merlin, what she wouldn’t give to be ignorant of the glares. Struck dumb at his brazen gesture, Hermione could only nod. She flicked her gaze around the hall — there was no sign of Baddock anywhere. A frown tugged at her lips and she dropped her eyes back to her plate of food. She’d suddenly lost her appetite.

“He’s fine,” Draco said, answering her silent worry with an even tone. She sniffed and lifted her chin, refusing to look him in the eyes despite feeling his gaze on her. “Baddock, the twat. Madam Pomfrey coated him in bruise paste and he slept in the dorms last night.”

Hermione picked at pieces of toast, but didn’t eat another bite. For a solid five minutes, she tore it into tiny pieces and chucked them at the eggs on her plate. It gave her something to focus on, something to pay attention to that wasn’t the whispers in the hall or Malfoy’s relentless gaze. If she stopped tearing apart the bread, she wouldn’t be able to focus on how it scratched at her fingertips and crumbled under the pressure of her fingers. Instead, she’d have to feel the twitch of the pulse in her neck and the nagging memory of a Great Hall filled with the dead, dying, and wounded. Even as she tried not to think, the memories and the whispers acted as cohorts to pull her thoughts downwards. Her thoughts spiraled as she mindlessly chopped her sausages into tiny pieces and shifted the now demolished bread around her plate.

She needed a distraction and she needed it fast. Her breath rushed between her lips, uncontrolled and wild, and whipped against the crumbs on her plate, blowing them all over the table.

“I’m surprised you haven’t been expelled,” Hermione said breathlessly, pressing her eyes closed and shoving the heel of her hands into her cheeks.

Malfoy’s voice was so close to her that her entire body seized as he spoke. “McGonagall gave us detention. Once a week, every week, until we graduate.”

It was the perfect distraction. She lifted her face from her hands and turned to him. Their faces were so close that she could see the flecks of blue in his dark gray eyes. Hermione readjusted so that she was further away — she needed to breathe her own air — and ran her hands over the fabric of her skirt. Clammy, slick, shaky. She clutched at the fabric and held on tight.

“Detention? For everything he said?” Hermione drew in a deep breath and then scoffed. “He got away with it, then? With being so vile. No one actually cares, do they?”

“He could have been suspended or expelled,” Draco said and it stifled her anger. He shrugged and shoved another piece of food into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “You ran off. It was his word against mine and I have a...  _ history _ . Corner wanted to bind me and throw me into the dungeons.”

Draco lifted his chin in the direction of the Ravenclaw table and Hermione followed his line of sight.  Michael Corner was staring at Malfoy with straight lips and tight eyes as Terry Boot whispered something in his ear. All down the Ravenclaw table, students' eyes kept flicking to Draco and Hermione, their expressions distrusting and suspicious. Even Luna’s head tilted with her eyes watching them with curiosity. 

Hermione’s heart thudded. The attention felt suffocating. She swallowed around a dry patch and cleared her throat as she pulled her gaze away from the sea of blue and bronze uniforms.

“You shouldn’t have hit him,” she muttered quietly and dropped her eyes to where her hands bunched the fabric of her skirt. She heard Draco click his tongue and chanced a glance in his direction. His eyes still lingered at the Ravenclaw table. “I’m sorry that I ran off. I — I can go to Headmistress McGonagall and ask—”

His gaze snapped to hers and she was struck dumb under its intensity. The planes of his neck tightened and then his nostrils flared. He took a moment, a breath, and gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it, Granger. Detention will be far better this year than last.”

He tossed her a sardonic smirk and then shoved another forkful of breakfast into his mouth.

Something sickly coated her stomach and rolled unpleasantly in her gut. She couldn’t sit there and pretend that she was okay any longer. Hermione swung her leg over the bench, grabbed her rucksack, and tore from the hall without so much as a goodbye to Malfoy. She didn’t know if he watched her leave, but she was certain the collective eyes of the school watched as she rushed out of the hall. She bowed her head so her hair fell like a curtain on either side of her face in an attempt to block out the relentless stares of her fellow students

She heard the hall break out into an excited buzz as she finally crossed into the corridor. She hated how it made her feel; vulnerable, sensitive, not at all the Hermione she’d been before. Before Voldemort, before the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, before the battle.

She pressed her back against the stone wall and bent at the waist as she tried to control her breathing. In for four, out for six, just like the books said. She practiced her breathing for several repetitions and when she finally felt as though she could make it through the corridor without fainting, she pushed off the wall and walked out the nearest exit to the grounds.

It was only when the cool autumn breeze struck her face that Hermione noticed the tear tracks down her cheeks, cold, wet, and dripping from her chin onto her jumper. She wasn’t sure where she was heading, not until the short smoke stack of Hagrid’s Hut came into view. Perhaps that’s what she needed; familiarity, normalcy. She hadn’t been to visit Hagrid yet, even though on her first night back he’d invited her down for rock cakes and tea.

Hagrid would be safe. He would understand. He was wildly empathetic and maybe she could use that to help calm down before a full day of classes. Her steps sped up as she descended the slope from the school to his hut. Her legs still wobbled whenever her feet hit the soft ground. 

The grass still held a modicum of dew from the early morning and, at one point on her trek, her foot slipped out from beneath her. She managed to steady herself before falling, but with a quick beating heart and heavy breath, she stood for a moment before continuing on. That’s when she saw it: a dry patch of blood, staining a large rock that sat just off the path. Its dark, rusty color contrasted violently against the white-washed surface of the boulder and Hermione couldn’t stop looking at it.

She knew this place. Remembered that she and Harry and Ron had run by it. That Harry had flung a curse toward a Snatcher who had a sixth year cornered against it. They’d never even had the time to make sure the sixth year was okay. With the blood settled into the rock, Hermione knew the answer.

Her chest tightened as she tried to steal in a greedy breath. Hermione’s legs lost their strength and crumpled beneath her. She slammed into the ground and wrapped her fingers in the wet blades of grass by her knees. She tore into the earth, dug and dug as her sense of rationale was overwhelmed by fear and anguish. Hermione cried out, rage twisting itself around the sound and echoing through the mountains.

Hogwarts, her first home in the Wizarding World, was tainted. Tainted by blood and plagued by death. It would never, ever be the same to her. This infuriated her more than it saddened her. Her mind, something she held in esteem above anything else, failed her. It honed in on the trauma, it reacted to the war even after it was over, and it forced her into a fight or flight battle that she just didn’t have the strength to overcome.

With her fingers curled into the damp earth, she stole breaths too quickly and couldn’t calm down. It didn’t take long for her vision to blacken at the edges and for the world to swim in front of her eyes. Her last thought before descending into unconsciousness was that she’d been betrayed; not by a friend or a confidante. No, this was worse.

Her own mind had betrayed her.

Visions of the war swam through her thoughts. Hazy, dark, and confused. She cried out at shadowy figures that were struck by blurred jets of light, but no one could hear her. Instead, they fell, one by one, until Hermione stood alone and afraid, covered in blood and dirt.

There was pressure on her shoulder, a pain that radiated through her body. Hermione tried to shrug off the feeling, she had to keep going, had to push further into the castle so that she, Harry, and Ron could get to the Room of Requirement and find Ravenclaw’s diadem. But she shook instead, planted on the spot.

She shook and shook with that strange pressure on her shoulder ever-present and persistent.

Her body jerked and Hermione opened her eyes. A set of gray eyes stared back at her, a frown stretching his lips down. Hermione blinked; it was raining all around her but not  _ on  _ her and Draco hovered just above her line of vision. He crouched beside her and she couldn’t make sense of it. How did Malfoy find his way out here when his parents would no doubt be in the castle, wearing masks and black robes, terrorizing the school?

Eyes unfocused and fuzzy, she tried to discern where she was. It didn’t sound like war, it didn’t smell like it either. Something soft touched her forehead and then the bridge of her nose, over to her cheeks and down to the pulse point against her throat.

“Granger,” his voice was nothing more than a tense whisper. It wasn’t until he pulled his hand away that she realized the softness against her face and throat had been his fingers. “Granger, I need you to breathe with me, alright? In and out, steady.” He breathed in a pattern that Hermione knew well. She followed along as her vision sharpened and the world around her came into focus. “That’s good, Granger. Good. A little longer — in and out.”

Her pulse slowed to a normal tempo and her body stopped feeling as if it were made of jelly. She stared into Malfoy’s eyes and listened to the sound of his steady breathing and let it take hold of her long enough to calm her.

When she felt as if she could talk, Hermione chewed on her lip — a nasty, nervous habit she’d developed during the war — and dropped her gaze from his. “Why are you being so nice to me, Malfoy?”

A snort blew hot air between them and it drew her eyes to him again. He looked amused more than impatient; understanding rather than annoyed. “I have quite a bit to make up for, to be honest. If I left you here to be eaten by creatures on the grounds, it would go against this whole new lifestyle I’m trying to cultivate.”

She knew he was making a joke, but she really didn’t feel like laughing. Instead, she scrutinized him more closely and lifted a curious brow. “You’ve already apologized. I accepted, remember?”

Draco scoffed and his amusement dropped from his face at the speed of light. “We both know that words can fix nothing.”

“No,” Hermione agreed, wiping her dirty hands on her skirt. “But they’re a good starting point, nonetheless.” She smiled at him, a slight thing that barely lifted her cheek. “What detention did McGonagall give you, by the way?”

“Lines in her office. Apparently no other teacher wanted to keep me any longer than necessary.” Draco stood up and stuck his hand out toward her. She stared at it; it was so clean, so soft, so perfectly pristine. She dropped her eyes to her own hands; dirty, rough, calloused. “Are you going to take my hand or not?”

The way he looked at her, as if unsure whether she would take his hand and instead choose to sit in the mud and grass, softened her slightly. As though he didn’t care if she was dirty, but rather did care that she was not alright. Hermione nodded her chin and gave in. He wrapped her hand tightly in his and used his weight to hoist her from the ground. She let him loose as soon as she was steady on her feet.

As she took a moment to brush the grass from her clothes, she glanced over at him. “Give them time, Malfoy.”

He dipped his chin and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. To his credit, Hermione noticed he didn’t pull any sort of face as he wiped his hands off. “That’s what mother says, too.”

“Well, you can’t knock her logic.” Hermione attempted a smile and it earned her a lighthearted lift of Draco’s lips in her direction. It was odd — disconcerting in a pleasant way that made her nervous. “How is your mum, anyway?”

The last time she’d seen Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione had been sitting in the Great Hall covered in blood and ragged from dueling wizards and witches far more experienced than herself. Narcissa had looked at her, thinned her lips, and swept her eyes away quickly. Hermione had wondered if the same thing was going through her mind was going through Narcissa Malfoy’s: that the blood may never come out of their drawing room floor, and the echoes of Hermione’s screams would haunt the manor forever.

Draco removed his robes and held them out to Hermione. When she simply stared at them without moving to take them, Draco jerked the robes in her direction without instruction. 

“Don’t be stubborn, Granger. You’re freezing.” He huffed when she continued to stare and then took it upon himself to wrap her in them so that she didn’t freeze in the cool autumn morning. “She’s lost without father at home. They haven’t been apart in nearly twenty years. It’s taking her some time to get used to his absence. And, she’s torn between what she’s always known and what she believes is right.”

Hermione didn’t mean to gasp so obnoxiously; it was torn from her involuntarily. She muttered an apology and picked at the skin around her thumb.

“It’s not quite as dramatic as you think,” Draco continued with small chuckle. “She’s talked about building a shrine to Potter in her garden.”

It was the first time she’d laughed in ages. Possibly since the Ministry photo opportunity, before the convicted Death Eater had spat in her face and called her a Mudblood. She forgot how good it felt to laugh, how cleansing an act it was. And it settled peacefully in her chest as she glanced up to Draco with amused eyes.

“Really?” She tugged on his robes and held them tightly around her frame. “She’ll really build a shrine to Harry?”

Another breathy laugh escaped her as he shrugged. “Probably.”


	3. You, Me, Firewhiskey?

Days passed and Hermione and Malfoy seemed to develop a routine. She’d head to the library between classes and meals and Draco would eventually show up, sit down, and work quietly across from her. It was an odd sort of acquaintance that had begun the day he’d found her outside, unconscious and freezing. He nagged her to go and see Madam Pomfrey and she did, obtaining draughts to calm her nerves that she had no intention of taking. She didn’t tell Malfoy that, though. When he’d ask about her care, she’d change the subject.

“Ancient Runes is the worst,” Draco muttered one evening before slamming his parchment onto the table and tossing his quill aside. He ran his hands over his face and stared aimlessly around the near-empty library. “Who knew there were so many ways to curse something with small symbols, and are they inverted or are they duplicated, and are you reading Elder Futhark or something newer?”

Hermione gently set her quill aside and watched as he glared a hole into his essay. “I thought you liked Ancient Runes?”

He pulled a face of mock disgust — it was so juvenile — and sighed. “I fell behind in sixth year and have struggled to catch up ever since.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I remember you were good at runes. You would get so mad at me when I answered a question before you in class.” She laughed and tucked a chunk of curls behind her ear. “What happened in sixth year that made you give up on them?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He reached forward, grabbed the runes parchment and pulled it closer to him. “You already know what my sixth year was like, Granger. We don’t need to revisit it.”

The icy feeling of shame washed over her and she pulled her lips into her mouth, biting hard on the pillowy flesh. Her lips were white before she let them go and quietly apologized to him. She knew all too well how hard it was when people insisted on asking about the past. He didn’t bother to answer, only half-shrugged and nodded his head before continuing to write his essay. His quill scratched forcefully against the parchment.

The topic was clearly closed.

Hermione stole a deep breath and let it out slowly from her nose. The opposite to what her breathing should have been; in through the nose and out through the mouth. She quickly changed the pattern and wiped her hands against the soft fabric of her skirt. She stared at Malfoy as he worked with puckered lips and tight eyes, never once glancing up at her or giving any indication that he was aware she was watching him closely.

After several minutes, she sighed quietly and went back to writing her essay. They worked in silence for so long, and she became so engrossed in her essay, that she almost forgot Malfoy was sitting with her. It wasn’t until a seventh year, wearing a Hufflepuff tie, sat down at their table and began unpacking her rucksack noisily that Hermione’s concentration was broken. The girl, a blonde with impossibly deep brown eyes and silky, perfectly curled blonde hair, leaned over to Draco and spoke to him softly.

“I’m Selene Warbeck,” the girl said cheerfully, thumping a Divination book on the table in front of her. “You might know my auntie, Celestina, from the WWN. She’s famous. And she has seer blood, which means that I have seer blood. Professor Trelawney thinks that I haveThe Gift.”

Hermione watched the girl’s shameless and clumsy flirting and rolled her eyes. Draco, however, just continued to stare at her, entirely mute. His quill drew a line off the edge of his parchment as he paid Selene the strictest of attention. Hermione sighed and attempted to ignore the interaction.

“Do you know that I think I’ve seen you in a vision once,” Selene continued happily as she drew a long roll of parchment from her bag. When she was level with Draco again, she beamed at him and wrapped a blonde strand of hair around her finger. “I don’t want to get into details with certain company present, but it involved a lot of green silk.”

Hermione couldn’t stop the disgusted, derisive snort that came from her and, instead of reacting to the Hufflepuff, Malfoy’s eyes flicked to Hermione and his lips twitched. He turned his head slowly back to Selene, lips raised higher, and tapped his finger absently against the side of his quill.

“I am, unfortunately, not a fan of silk,” Draco told her lightly, seeming to revel in the way her face fell. “And green really isn’t my color, to be honest. I know everyone expects that, as a proud Slytherin, I would enjoy seeing a lover wrapped in emerald, but I have no patience for knickers that remind me of Hogwarts.”

Selene blushed so deeply that Hermione actually felt sorry for her. Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor between herself and Draco and her shoulders rose under the deep breath she took. When Selene looked up again, she had a renewed sort of vigor that crackled in the air around her.

“Perhaps, then, no knickers are the trick?” Selene wiggled her eyebrows.

Hermione positively lost it. She snorted and then her hand flew up to cover her mouth and nose. The laughter wouldn’t stop itself. Hermione tried to clear her throat, tried to hold her breath, tried to turn her head, but it just wouldn’t dissipate. She heard Malfoy’s breath of laughter and then lost it all over again. Really, she was so embarrassed by her reaction that Hermione wanted nothing more than to hide underneath the table.

Selene, apparently sensing that she was chatting up the wrong wizard, repacked her bag furiously and stormed from the library. Hermione’s laughter died as the poor girl rounded the corner in a flurry. A wave of guilt and remorse washed over her. Was it really so easy to be terrible to someone?

“I know what you’re thinking, Granger,” Malfoy interrupted her spiralling thoughts. “It was entirely inappropriate for her to approach me in such a manner. And, it was downright improper for her to proposition me so flagrantly.”

Draco’s argument was well reasoned enough, but Hermione still couldn’t help thinking that she had been unkind, cruel. “She probably didn’t mean it to come off so predatory. I do feel bad for laughing at her.”

“Granger.” Draco sighed and loosened the knot of his tie as he turned back towards her. “Your intention wasn’t to humiliate or torture the girl. You’re hardly a bully for laughing at unwanted sexual advances, and such a spectacular failure.”

She couldn’t help it, again, she chuckled. It really  _ was _ a fantastic failure. “Alright. Could you do me a favor and not encourage them next time?”

“Do you believe I’ll have many lonely witches throwing themselves at me, Granger?” Draco’s eyebrows were high on his forehead. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms.

It was Hermione’s turn to flush with a burst of heat that started at her chest and rose quickly up her neck and to her cheeks. She opened her mouth to retort, though with  _ what _ she wasn’t sure. Luckily, she was spared having to think of a reply as an imposing figure donned in Slytherin robes approached their table. Hermione’s eyes dropped to her parchment, allowing the two housemates a modicum of privacy.

“Draco,” the familiar voice drawled as her fingers tapped on the table.

Hermione’s eyes snapped up to the pitbull-like face of Millicent Bulstrode. Her lips parted, eyes misted immediately, and her hands slicked with sweat. She swallowed, too dry, and bounced her foot up and down to gain some control over her rising adrenaline. Hermione opened her mouth, but Millicent turned her head away just as Hermione found her voice. The movement silenced her and she lost her moment when the Slytherin spoke again to Draco.

“Why don’t you skive off your study session with the Golden Girl and come join us for the party in the Ravenclaw dorms.” Millicent’s fingers played absently with a quill that Hermione had placed on the table. Hermione watched it carefully, ready to rip it from her hands should Millicent try and nick it.

Draco’s voice dipped to something harsh and venomous. “And how exactly do you expect to get in, Bulstrode? You barely answered the “what’s your name?” portion of your O.W.L.s.” 

Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose and faked a cough as Millicent’s eyes swept to her and then back to Draco again. 

Instead of retaliating as Hermione expected, Millicent laughed his words off as if they didn’t bother her. “They’re keeping the door open for anyone wanting to attend. The whole of eighth year will be there.”

Draco seemed to be letting her words sink in for a moment. Hermoine watched his eyes harden as he ruminated on her words. She could practically hear the way his mind worked, until he finally acknowledged her and nodded his head. “Fine. I’ll be there soon.”

Something tugged at Hermione at the thought of Malfoy leaving her alone so that he could go to a party with the rest of the eighth years. It wasn’t sadness, no, but disappointment. She thought someone had finally  _ got it _ ; the desire to study, the need to bury herself in her lessons rather than drinking with the rest of their class, but really he was just like everyone else. She frowned into her essay and scooted herself closer to the table to settle into another long night in the library.

“Great! See you there,” Millicent simpered as her eyes flicked to Hermione again. “Oh, and don’t bring the Mudblood. Nobody wants the punch to be contaminated by her kind of filth drinking from it.”

Millicent walked off, and even her steps gave off an air of haughtiness. Hermione ignored it all as best she could and started on her Astronomy homework. She waited and waited for Draco to follow after his housemate, but he never did. 

Instead, his voice interrupted her, low and amused, as he leaned forward over the table. “Do you want to join me for a game of Wizard Chess in the eighth year common room?”

Hermione chewed on the side of her lip and gripped her quill tighter than ever. “Shouldn’t you be getting to Ravenclaw? You wouldn’t want to miss the party of the year, right?”

Malfoy’s grin was wolfish. It was just as dashing as it was unnerving. He reached into the inner pocket of his robes and brandished a small, silver flask and moved it back and forth between them enticingly. “You, me, firewhiskey?”

Hermione considered the flask and tried to ignore the look on Malfoy’s face. She furrowed her brow. She’d never really drunk firewhiskey before, never really saw a need to, even when everyone else had succumbed to its numbing effects in the months after the war. It had made her feel like an outsider. Like she wasn't one _ of them _ because she wouldn’t stay up late at night in various houses talking about her ‘feelings about the war’.

She took a breath and released it carefully through pursed lips. It wouldn’t hurt, would it? The flask was hardly big enough to get her completely pissed. If nothing else, she could cross it off her list of experiences. Of course, being alone in the eighth year common room with Malfoy, whilst drinking a strong beverage, didn’t seem like a particularly  _ good _ thing to do. It also didn’t seem downright bad, either. Her head canted to the side as her eyes slid from the flask to the gray eyes staring back at her expectantly.

“Alright.” She didn’t elaborate, didn’t make a fuss. Instead, Hermione packed up her bag carefully and stood from the table while Malfoy continued to stare at her with a lax jaw. “Well, come on, then. I’m not very well versed in Wizard Chess, so you’ll need to go over the rules carefully.”

It took him a moment to catch up to her as she zipped through the library to the corridor. He skidded alongside her halfway to the dorms before he fell into casual step with her. She liked that his breathing was just shy of a pant; it meant that she took him off guard. She very rarely got to do that to anyone anymore, because everyone expected her to be exasperatingly Hermione all the time. This, though, the new strange acquaintanceship with Malfoy, felt new and fresh and different.

The feelings she had, regarding a tentative friendship with Malfoy, floated in and out of her mind until they finally reached their dorm. She hadn’t even realized they’d been walking for as long as they had, and she was surprised, because usually she had to stop at least once to catch her breath, due to an episode of uncontrolled anxiety which was triggered from the memory of seeing Lavender Brown’s body sprawled on the ground. She’d been entirely captivated by her curiosity over this Malfoy business and missed the near-scheduled panic attack completely.

The game of chess was mentally exhilarating for Hermione. Even though she’d never cared much for it, barbaric as it was, she found that when she made one of her little men smash Draco’s, it had an almost cathartic relief. Draco sat across from her, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled at his chin, watching every move on the board. He’d walked her through the best practices, reiterated how each piece moved on the board, and then reminded her that the game relied on strategy. 

“You’re a war heroine, Granger,” he told her with a roll of his eyes. “This shite comes naturally to you.”

In fact, it did not.

As she sucked down her fifth taste of firewhiskey — which was getting easier to swallow without coughing and wincing — Draco beat her quite swiftly by capturing her king. It was the oddest thrill; she should have felt devastated over losing and instead she felt elated.

Her nose scrunched as she passed the flask to Malfoy and watched as he waved his wand over the board to reset it. “Shouldn’t you let me win?” 

“First of all,” he said as he lifted a single finger at her with a smirk, “Slytherin. Second of all.” Draco tipped back a swig of firewhiskey and then shook the flask. It was clearly empty. “I’d never dream of insulting Hermione Granger by allowing her to win.”

The grin that overtook her face was twenty percent firewhiskey and eighty percent sheer, unadulterated, raging excitement over Draco’s words. She beamed at him and for him and for the first time in so,  _ so _ long, she felt actively happy in her life.

The board was all set up for a second game and Malfoy moved one of his pawns forward. Hermione stared at the checkerboard and put a finger to her chin as she considered her options. She reached toward a pawn, but pulled back with a notch between her winged brows. She almost touched another pawn at the edge of the board and then glanced up at Malfoy, who was watching her intently, and then changed her mind again.

“Remember the rules, Granger.” His voice was teasing and there was a flash of something in his eyes that Hermione couldn’t quite place; playful, perhaps? “Once you touch a piece, you’re dedicated to moving it.”

She grimaced as she eyed the board warily.

“I don’t know where to start, if I’m honest,” she admitted quietly. The warmth of the firewhiskey flooded her cheeks and she swore that her unruly hair somehow expanded under the heat of her embarrassment.

Malfoy tossed a quick, small smile at her and stood from where he sat. She wondered for a moment if he was tired of her, if he was going to leave her to figure out the game herself. But then he sat down beside her and scooted in close. They sat shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, and she swore that the room heated up several degrees. The sofa dipped under their combined weight, the angle of the sofa ensuring that they were forced as close together as possible. After stealing a quick, deep breath through her nose, Hermione blinked slowly and tried to clear the pleasant fuzz from her mind.

Draco’s arm moved around her back to hold onto the arm of the sofa and then he leaned forward, forcing her to move with him over the board. They stayed like that for so long that her thighs ached, but she dared not move. She wondered if he could hear the increasing depth of her breathing or the thundering of blood through her veins. 

Just as she was getting ready to move away, out of the heated proximity, Draco spoke. His voice was low, a rumble in his chest that she could feel like electricity coursing down her spine. “Tell the board ‘pawn to C two’.”

Her shoulders stiffened. Her voice wavered. She stuttered as she did what Draco instructed. 

He walked her through several more moves and then glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Go on, then. What’s next?”

“Rook to—” She stopped when he shook his head an inch. “ _ Knight _ to E five.”

“Perfect.” A proud smirk lifted his lips as the small knight unsheathed its sword and smashed Malfoy’s rook into tiny pieces. “I think you’ve got the hang of it, Gra—”

His praise hit her square in the chest at the same time that a granule of stone lodged itself in her eye. She screeched and threw her hand over her eye, whimpering as it began to sting. Draco was on her in a flash, pulling her hand away from her face despite her adamant protests that she’d be fine. He called her something that sounded an awful lot like ‘stubborn swot’ and drew closer to her so that he could see exactly what had flown into her eye.

“You have to stop moving,” he warned her with breathy exasperation, his hand wound around hers and he held it gently down in her lap. His other hand moved up to her eye carefully and padded against the soft flesh below her eye. “Stay very, very still.”

She didn’t think she had a choice in the matter. Hermione was absolutely captivated by his close, warm gaze. Sure, he was trying to find a chunk of stone from that ridiculous and barbaric game, but the softness she found in his eyes stunned her silent and still. His breath fanned against her cheek that was so flushed with warmth she thought she might be permanently beetroot-colored. And his fingers moved so slowly toward her eye that she wondered if this was what it meant to trust Draco Malfoy; to allow him so close when she had so much time to bolt away.

He pulled the small bit of rock from her eye with a victorious “a-ha!” and rolled it in between his fingers before allowing it to drop to the carpet. “Better?”

Hermione blinked several times. Her eyes watered and when her vision was finally cleared, she realized that Draco was still close. He hadn’t moved an inch.

They stared at one another. Shallow breaths the only noise in the common room. Firewhiskey creating a buzz that lowered their tension. Wizard Chess pieces the only witnesses, if she was keeping track of that sort of thing. Hermione closed her eyes, ready for the kiss. She felt the faintest touch, just a whisper of his soft lip against hers, but nothing more.

She opened one eye and found him still staring at her. He looked concerned, puzzled. As if he’d been caught doing something wrong but had no recollection of what it was. Malfoy pulled back and offered her a tight lipped smile. He clapped his hands on his thighs and stood.

“I’m calling it a night,” he informed her tersely. “Good game, Granger.”

And then he was off, leaving Hermione alone with her manic and confused thoughts.


	4. The Room at the Back

Her night was restless. The faces of so many people she knew stared up at her from the stone floor of the school. They were lifeless, dead, gone. And she tried, tried so bloody hard to save them all. But they would disappear from her view and she’d move onto the next person. In her dream, she had no chance to save anyone. When her parents’ bodies appeared, she startled awake with tears flooding her eyes.

It took her an hour to stumble from her dorm room to the Great Hall for breakfast. Hermione had felt hazy from the very second she’d woken up. Shaky, withdrawn. Her hair was a rat’s nest and she didn’t even care enough to do anything about it. She wore the same jeans from the night before and a jumper that she picked up from her dorm floor. She wasn’t sure if it was something she’d flung there in her haste to find  _ something _ that morning or if she’d discarded it there after wearing it earlier in the week. 

It was still early enough in the day for the Great Hall to be relatively quiet. Saturdays tended to see students sleep in and so only a few from various houses were dotted about the room. Hermione didn’t even think twice about it as she sat down next to Malfoy at the Gryffindor table.

She stifled a yawn as she glanced at the tea in front of her. It was just the right shade of brown. “Thanks.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he piled her plate high with the same breakfast she’d eaten every morning since she came to school. Eggs, two half slices of toast, two sausages. She didn’t even think to question how or why he’d paid enough attention to memorize her meal. But she ate what he placed in front of her nonetheless as he moved on to load up his own plate with food. Draco’s food always varied; she wouldn’t dare assume what he’d eat on any given day.

A flurry of ginger hair plopped down beside her and Hermione swallowed her toast before turning to Ginny. “You’re far too cheerful for someone who partied with Ravenclaw all night.”

“It was brilliant,” Ginny exclaimed with a huge smile and enthusiastically dug into the food in front of them. “So, you and Malfoy weren’t at the party.”

Hermione choked on her tea. Draco handed her a napkin without even glancing at her. “We were playing Wizard Chess,” she told Ginny once she’d opened her airway.

Ginny glanced between Hernione and Draco. “Are we going to talk about this at all, or…?” Ginny let the question die between them.

For her part, Hermione was able to stifle the embarrassment and blush. “No.”

“Fine then.” Ginny shoved food into her mouth like only a Quidditch star could and then turned back to Hermione with a graver expression. “Still dreaming about…?”

Hermione nodded and washed a piece of toast down with a gulp of tea. “Less and less, though.”

“That’s good. That’s progress.” Ginny looked pleased, but perhaps she missed the way that Hermione’s eyes darkened and her breathing quickened. She decided not to comment on her progress; the dreams might be disappearing, but the rest wasn’t.

Hermione shrugged. “It was a lot — to go from everything to nothing at all — with the war ending. I know it’s not true, logically I do, but I feel so… useless lately.”

“Well, that’s probably because you’re back here, stationary.” Ginny flung a chunk of egg over Hermione’s head and hit Malfoy directly on the side of the head. He scowled, but the two girls shared a look and a smile. “You could always leave and join the boys at the Ministry. I’m sure they’ll let you into the program still. Harry said that’s how he felt about coming back to Hogwarts, too.”

Hermione bristled. They’d had this conversation so many times before, around and around in circles they’d gone, after the war and during the summer and after their letters of acceptance to the Auror program arrived. She didn’t want to talk about not being at school. She didn’t want to be an Auror. It would be too traumatizing; she couldn’t do it.

“I like my education,” she said through clenched molars. “I want to finish school.”

Ginny, bless her, dropped the conversation entirely, only acknowledging Hemrione’s statement with a curt nod. “I’ve got Quidditch training later, but if you want to talk, I’ll make time, alright?”

Hermione nodded, a small forced smile. “Right. Thanks, Gin.”

When Ginny stood from the table leaving nothing but crumbs on her plate, Hermione visibly relaxed. Her shoulders dropped, her eyes softened. She didn’t want to feel that way around her friends, but there was so much pressure to be perfectly  _ Hermione _ all the time. It was a relief when she was alone, or with others who didn’t expect her to do and say a prescribed list of things that other people associated with her.

She felt Malfoy’s elbow brush against hers, jolting her out of her thoughts. His breath blew a small curl against her neck. A shiver ran down her spine as he spoke. “Are you free today?”

Everything inside of her clenched and her mind was a flurry of ‘no, no, no.’ Instead, however, she whispered, “Yes.”

She was rewarded with a crooked smile. “I want to show you something. If you’re done eating, we can head down to the Quidditch pitch now. They’ll have Saturday practice on, but that will be a good distraction for us.”

Hermione turned to him slowly, a single brow lifted in curiosity. “We need a distraction?”

“Absolutely. If we’re going to fly—”

“I don’t fly.” Even thinking about it caused her stomach to knot. No, she was not a flier.

“You won’t need to. Believe me, I’ve been witness to your—” His fingers curled in the air like quotation marks, a smarmy smirk on his face. “Flying skills. I’ll fly us. For safety purposes.”

The chapped pieces of her lip that were raw and red screamed as she sank her teeth into the flesh again. Her hands felt clammy. Cheeks blazed. Legs tingling. No, she remembered the last time that she flew and it was here in the castle on the back of a broom. Fiendfyre had chased her as she, Harry, and Ron raced out of the Room of Requirement. And Draco — he’d been there, too. He’d lost his friend. 

Her lips pulled down as her throat constricted tighter and tighter.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Malfoy,” she admitted quietly. “Flying and I don’t really get along and if I have a— one of my anxiety attacks on a broom, I’ll hurt us both.”

He waved off her concerns. “You won’t hurt us both. I’ll have full control over the broom. We’ll apply a sticking charm to you, if we need to.”

There was that dashing smile again; a little playful, a whole lot of charming. She wasn’t sure why it made her stomach flutter, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Hermione still wasn’t convinced though, enticing smile or not. She shook her head and pushed her half-eaten plate of food away from her.

“Do you want to always feel as though you’re stuck here?” Draco stared at her shrewdly for several beats. “We have special privileges as eighth years. Let’s use them. I think that what I have to show you will help with your…difficulties.”

Damn him.

Her face must have said as much, because that casual smile transformed into something positively ravening. “I’ll meet you down at the Quidditch pitch in half an hour, Granger.”

She watched him go as he left the Great Hall. Neville caught her eye from the far end of the table. Neville, who was so unassuming, so selfless, such a brilliant wizard. God, she loved her friends, but when she looked at his face she could see remember how it twisted in anguish and the sound of his cries of agony as Voldemort set ablaze to the Sorting Hat perched on the top of his head. And then, near the end of it all, the way he swung the Sword of Gryffindor and chopped off the head of Voldemort’s snake. Blood everywhere. 

Before she allowed herself to get lost in the unrelenting memories of the war, Hermione shoved away from the table with a tight smile at Neville. Get out, that’s exactly what she needed to do. Her legs felt like lead as they carried her through the castle. She wanted to walk through blindfolded so that she wouldn’t notice the place where Fred was buried under falling masonry or where Professor Lupin and Tonks were found lifeless.

The memories swirled around her and she ran until she was out of the castle and onto the grounds. It was becoming a habit for her to run the second that dark memories began to flood her.

She arrived at the pitch before Malfoy. The Gryffindor team was practicing high above her. Ginny waved down as she crossed overhead. Hermione brought her gaze back along the pitch and there he was. In jeans, a white shirt, and a leather jacket. Her mouth dropped open.

He looked so… so  _ Muggle _ . Even with a racing broom over his shoulder, he could have passed for a rough-around-the-edges sort of Muggle. It shook her — she’d never really considered Draco out of his school uniform or proper robes before. And she certainly never would have thought he look so casual.

She gulped as he approached and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. God, she wasn’t even sure if her clothes were  _ clean _ , let alone — her eyes roved his body quickly — that.

When he reached her, he wasted no time swinging his leg over the side of the broom. Draco’s hand extended to her but she didn’t take it. “Come on, Granger. Don’t make me convince you all over again.”

“It’s just — you can’t fly fast or high or  _ fast _ , Malfoy.” She scrunched her nose as she scrutinized his broom. She knew nothing about brooms; what made them good, what made them safe. Did they have crash test ratings like Muggle vehicles? How did she know that he didn’t choose a fast model over a safe model?

Draco chuckled and gestured with his hand again. “I won’t fly fast or higher than necessary, alright? Come on. You’ll love this, I promise.”

There was no way to do this, she thought. She couldn’t seem to force her hand into his, couldn’t step closer to him than she already was. Hermione struggled to consciously make a decision that she felt was counter-intuitive to her survival. Flying on brooms in the mountains of Scotland with no verifiable safety ratings or parameters was just mental. It was mental. And Hermione was a lot of things, but she was  _ not _ mental.

Her breathing was top speed, through her mouth, which was all wrong. The world around her was hazy as Draco approached her awkwardly with his broom between his legs.

“Granger.” He set a hand on her shoulder and lowered his eyes level with hers. “I won’t go any further than what you’re comfortable with, yeah? I won’t even move from this spot until you’re comfortable.”

He was too close, but he was also too soothing. The tone of his voice lulled her into comfort. His hand was still proffered to her and she glanced down at it. She could walk away, decide it was too much, and settle for being in the castle where she was uncomfortable and in a near-constant state of anxiety. Or, she could  _ try _ . She could explore places that weren’t tainted with dark and bloody memories. 

“If you kill me, I’m going to haunt the shite out of you.” She gripped his hand and allowed him to help her onto the broom so she was sitting in front of him. Her foot nearly caught on its way over, but Draco helped her balance even through his short laugh.

She sat still on the broom with her hands on top of her thighs. Draco’s hands rested on her waist, his fingers digging into the fleshy bits of her hips. Hermione was yanked backward; her back pressed snugly against Draco’s chest. He tucked her head under his chin as his arms came around the front of her, in between her legs. Hermione’s cheeks were beacons of fire; of course he had to hold the broom steady, but Merlin she hadn’t considered what that meant.

Curiously, all her former concerns about death by broom accident disappeared. She still couldn’t breathe, but it was for entirely different reasons.

His voice startled her, so close to her ear. “You tell me when you’re ready and we’ll take off. Slowly.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed onto the sleeves of Draco’s leather jacket to have some type of purchase on the broom. She turned her head to the side and pressed her face into his shoulder. The rumble in his chest didn’t comfort her in the slightest.

“Just go,” she whispered gravely. “We’ll be here for hours if you don’t just g—”

The broom sprang to life beneath her and Draco’s entire frame tensed around her. They jerked together as Draco kicked off from the ground and then they rose slowly over the pitch. Hermione screamed, a natural and terrorized sound that earned her zero sympathy from Draco, who laughed and tucked himself closer.

The higher they climbed, the thinner the air became. Hermione found that her ragged breathing slowed too, the longer she sat on the broom. She found her breathing rhythm in Draco’s heartbeat and tried to mimic the way it thudded against her to keep it steady. It got colder, but her proximity to Draco helped to lessen the chilly autumn air.

“If you’re brave enough to open your eyes, you’ll see the best view Hogwarts has to offer.” His timber was low, gravelly, and directly into her ear. It shot through her and the surprise of it made Hermione’s eyes spring open.

She pried her cheek off his leather jacket and slowly faced forward. The Scottish mountains, peaked against the skyline in the distance. The hazy orange glow of the morning sun shone brilliantly as they flew toward it and the water of the Great Lake sparkled below them in a blue-orange hue that she’d never seen before.

A breath left her, but not sharp or heavy. Then a gasp. Awe. Finally, to have something at Hogwarts that struck her with positivity rather than the dread of war. She found herself nestling closer to Malfoy, holding on tight to his arms, and taking the chance to move herself just slightly so that she could experience the full panorama view.

The broom slowed as if Malfoy knew that she was reveling in the moment. She appreciated him for it. If she were a braver person, she’d let go of his arms and allow her hands to skim the clouds. Alas, she was still skittish regardless of how beautiful the view was.

When they drew closer to the mountains, Draco descended and Hermione yipped in surprise. He laughed, seeming to draw joy from her fear, as he steered them toward a hidden little village nestled amongst the rock. They landed and Draco held his hand out to help her off the broom. She didn’t hesitate to take it this time and instead held onto it with a death grip until he was forced to pull away. He disillusioned the broom and tucked it away against the rocky wall that lined path.

She was surprised when Draco held his hand out to her again. Unnecessarily. But, what surprised her more was that she only hesitated for a half beat before she took his hand and followed him a few yards until they got to, what seemed to be, the main road through the village. Draco pulled her through the first door they came to and she tried not to judge the place based on its old, gray wooden door that looked as if it could fall off its hinges at any moment.

A bell chimed overhead and the smell of rosemary hit her. Hermione wrinkled her nose and glanced around. The place was like a hole in the wall; just a small room with a few tables and a long counter along one wall. A shabbily dressed man stood behind the counter with several candles lit around him. She couldn’t tell what it was he sold or if it was meant to be a cafe, though, as the room seemed relatively empty except for abstract paintings on the walls and tin kettles on each table.

“Draco!” The man behind the counter, a decidedly cheerful man with a slender frame and round cheeks, hollered happily in their direction. “Lovely to see you, son. Come in, come in. Tea? Biscuit?”

The smile on Malfoy’s face seemed genuine to Hermione, and it confused her. Who was this man? What was this place? She felt befuddled. Perhaps she had fainted and cracked her head on rocks and this was another dream. It was far too pleasant compared to her normal dreams, though. It had to be real.

“Basil, it’s good to see you again.” Draco dragged Hermione forward through the dim room and didn’t drop her hand as he reached out to shake hands with the proprietor. “We’d like a room at the back. Private, please.”

A room at the  _ what?  _ She blanched as she stared at the back of Malfoy’s head and tried to figure out exactly what type of establishment she was standing in with him. His request seemed to indicate that he was taking her somewhere private, a room, and he’d gotten her alone in a place, and no one knew where she was. The only thing she could think was that Malfoy thought he was getting  _ lucky _ with her. She wasn’t having any of it.

Hermione yanked her hand from Draco’s and glared at him. “A room? Here? I really thought that you were showing me something new and useful and instead you bring me to a dirty little place no one has ever heard of and think I’m just going to- to- _to have_ _sex_ with you?”

She fumed. Her hands balled into fists. If there weren't any witnesses, she might have punched him in the nose. Again. It felt good the first time, Hermione was under no illusion that it wouldn’t just as good the second time.

Draco looked at her like she was insane, but Hermione thought  _ he _ was the insane one if he thought she’d haul off and shag him just because he was  _ nice _ to her. She stared back at him, a scowl on her face.

“Oh, God, you think—” Draco laughed, paused, took in the ire on her face, and then burst into laughter. Hermione blushed deep red and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Granger, no! I’m not trying to get into your knickers. Merlin and Morgana, no. You really do think an awful lot of yourself, don’t you?”

“Well you don’t have to be so nasty about it,” Hermione hissed, still unappeased. “What are you planning on doing with me in a room at the back, then?”

“Just come with me,” he insisted, and grabbed one of her clenched fists in his hand — a dangerous move if Hermione was being honest — and tipped his chin to Basil before stealing her off toward, what Hermione assumed was, The Back. “And you should apologize to Basil. Those are terrible things to assume about his fine establishment.”

As Draco pulled her through a door leading out of the room, Hermione decided she’d apologize to Basil on her way out. She’d hate to think Draco Malfoy, of all people, had better manners than she had.

Draco stepped aside to allow Hermione to walk into the room. She was surprised to find that it was a large, rectangular room and magicked bigger than the room she’d just left. Lined against the far wall were moving figures. All of them were draped in Death Eater robes, donning masks that appeared to be real Death Eater masks. Each one as unique and disturbing as the last.

The panic hit her hard and fast. 

It clawed at her chest, at her throat, at her arms. She cowered away until her back hit a wall and she ducked her head to try and steal breaths in the pattern she knew well but often forgot. In for four, out for six. In for four, out for six. Rationally, she knew the figures in the room weren’t Death Eaters. She  _ knew _ it. But, that didn’t stop her mind from capsizing on itself and reacting as if there were real danger before her.

“I think I’m going to faint,” Hermione whispered from behind the curtain of her hair, voice strained and tense and barely louder than the wisp of butterfly wings. “I have to go, I can’t—”

“Bombarda!” Draco shouted and stabbed his wand forward at one of the figures. 

A target, she realized somewhere in the logical part of her brain. The Death Eaters were targets. Replicas of the real, terrible wizards that she’d faced down not so long ago. She stole a breath as the figure erupted into an explosion of sparkles.

Her heart skipped a beat. She squeezed her eyes closed.

“Your turn, Granger.” He looked proud of himself, lopsided smile and sparkling gray eyes. His voice sounded muffled to her, as if he were speaking through a tube. His voice was soft but encouraging. “You’ll feel better for it, I swear. Come on, up you get.”

When had she sat down? Hermione opened her eyes and, to her surprise and dread, she was sitting against the wall with her legs outstretched in front of her. She never realized, didn’t even think about it. Her chest caught fire as she glared back at Malfoy who was staring down at her.

“They’re just costumes and magic.” Draco towered over her and held his hand out for her to take. “Nothing is going to hurt you here. I’ve got you.”

That was the thing, though, wasn’t it? She wasn’t afraid of the fake Death Eaters hurting her, no. She was becoming more and more afraid of her own mind and the way it could so instantly paralyze her. She’d gone through an entire war and survived, but this… her brain was a traitor.

Draco crouched down in front of her, feet planted on either side of her legs. “I’ve got you, Granger. Take all of that fear and all of that anger that I can see flashing in your eyes, and aim it at those bloody targets.”

His hand was out again, palm up, as he stared at her expectantly. She glanced down to it, then back to his eyes, eyes that glinted at her like steel grinding on metal. Hermione simultaneously grabbed his hand and hoisted herself up, and claimed a sharp breath through her nose. She relished the feel of her lungs expanding, the way they felt full for the first time since she’d walked into the room.

She pivoted around Draco and palmed her wand. Then froze. Apart from classroom practice, she hadn’t used her wand since —

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she whispered as the targets moved around in front of her. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Hey.” He was at her back, closely tucked against her. Draco’s hand cupped her elbow and then encouraged her wand arm to extend toward a target. His voice spoke just above her ear. “You  _ can _ do this. I’ve watched you do this.”

“That was different,” she answered harshly, her hand trembling and wand tip bouncing as her body shook. “That was — it was  _ before _ .”

His hand tightened around her elbow. She could see the veins and sinew of his arm as his skin paled against her. When he spoke, it was low and through his teeth. “Just breathe, Granger. Breathe and don’t let those bastards stop you from being a brilliant fucking witch.”

“I can’t—” Hard, shallow breaths. She was on the brink of another anxiety attack, right there in Malfoy’s arms.

“You  _ can _ .” Draco pulled back on her elbow and then thrust her arm forward in a jabbing movement. “Just like this, Granger. It’s easy. You’ve done it perfectly a hundred times.”

He repeated the movement again until she began to move on her own. Backward, forward, jab. Hermione breathed with the rhythm of the wand motion. He whispered ‘Bombarda’ in her ear quietly as she made the motion. It became a mantra. Backward, forward — Bombarda — jab.

A breath. Two. Draco’s hand fell away from her elbow. She moved her arm forward. “Bombarda.” Jab.

The spell flew right over the target’s head and slammed into the wall, causing shards of masonry to fly out into the room.

Before she could get upset, Draco was on her again. Repeating the motion. She ripped her elbow away from him, took a half-step forward, and tried again with her glare settling on the closest target.

“Bom _ barda _ !”

The red light sped from the tip of her wand and crashed into the intended target. It burst into millions of red and green sparkles. But Hermione didn’t want until they settled on the floor. She turned to Draco, her arms raised in victory and silently cheered for what she had accomplished. His grin was wide and as she wrapped her arms around him like she would Harry or Ron, the energy of her success fell around them.

“Nice one, Granger.” Draco’s breath fanned her face and she blinked away the moment.

They stood so close, almost on top of one another, as she loosened her arms from around his neck. His fingers tightened on her waist, but he let her go as she backed up with a sheepish smile and faint blush across her nose and cheeks.

“Sorry,” she whispered coyly and glanced over her shoulders. “I’d like to do that again, please.”

“Who am I to stop you, then?” He gestured to the remaining targets and stepped away while she slaughtered them one by one.


	5. Stubborn Witch

There was something to be said about spending an afternoon blasting fake Death Eaters apart. It was cathartic. Healing. And, for the first time in what felt like years, Hermione slept deeply and without interruption. Her dreams were of something else entirely and when she woke, the Hippogriff that had been sitting on her chest was gone.

She took advantage of the fact she was feeling better - refreshed, energized. Hermione chose clothes that were clean, took the time to apply charms to her curls, and even dotted a small drop of perfume behind her ears. For the first time since sixth year, the enchanted mirror didn’t have anything derogatory to say about her appearance.

She was flying high on her mood alone. When she saw Draco, she was going to tell him just how much she appreciated what he’d done for her. It put such a bounce in her step that when she came to the trick stair at the bottom of the steps from the eighth year common room’s staircase, Hermione leapt over it and grinned when she nailed the landing.

Having a clear head was nice. She remembered the homework that was due a week from now and planned to hit the library that night to complete it. She hadn’t kept up on her schoolwork like she used to. Finishing an essay at the minimal required length, a night or two before it was due, and having no peer review to ensure accuracy and viewpoint had been her new normal; she turned in what she’d managed to scribble down and called it her best.

It had been a tumultuous return to school. She’d been excited to get back to school, but then on the very first night during first year sorting, she realized she was devastated, haunted, isolated, confused, exhausted, and broken down. Some of that had changed since she and Draco became… were they friends? Hermione wasn’t sure. Perhaps something more than acquaintances, something less than friends.

When she saw his blond head duck into the Great Hall, she grinned and swept through the corridor after him.

“Good morning, Mudblood.”

Her spine straighted. Her body seized as if ice had been poured down the back of her jumper. She turned on her heel and faced the Slytherin that seemed to have taken to taunting her this year. Her eyes narrowed in his direction and she tried desperately to squash the rising jitters that sparked along her nerves.

“Malcolm. This has to stop.” Hermione tried to keep her voice even. He’d only get worse if he knew he was getting under her skin.

“Can’t handle a little bit of honesty?” Chunks of his brown hair fell in a swoop over his forehead as he laughed at her. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but vicious and taunting. “Silly Mudblood thinks she can make the big bad Pureblood play nice.”

Baddock pulled his wand from his robes and leered at her. Her stomach twisted and her lungs emptied. Hermione shifted her eyes away from Baddock and the memory slammed into her with the force of a stunning spell. There, just behind where Baddock stood. That was where the world had imploded, where walls had fallen away, and Fred with them. She didn’t think she’d ever forget Percy’s wails, the way they’d had to pry him from Fred’s body, the ghost of Fred’s last laugh frozen on his face.

It was a punch to her gut. Unforgiving. Relentless as the memories assaulted her and pulled her from the present. Drowned her in war and loss and pain.

She could barely make out Baddock’s hissed words. “Crazy bitch.”

She flinched when she snapped her gaze back to his face and found him closer. Her hand twitched toward her wand. Backward, forward,  _ breathe _ , jab.

“Your friends didn’t even want you around anymore,” he laughed and drew his face into a sneer. “Now you need a blood traitor like Malfoy to save you. It’s pathetic.  _ You’re _ pathetic.”

Despite her shaking hands, Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket. Her vision darkened around the edges. She repeated Malfoy’s mantra in her mind and breathed along with it. Backward, forward,  _ breathe _ , jab.

“Look at how much you’re shaking.” His  mocking laugh coated Hermione’s stomach in acid. “Can’t even hold your wand straight.  _ Pft. _ War hero, my arse.”

She would not cry. She would  _ not _ . A sharp inhale through her nose, out of sync with her desperate pattern, soothed her for just a moment as she felt her lungs expand. Her chest contracted painfully as she exhaled. There was a stabbing sensation from the edge of her ribcage all the way up to her shoulder.

Her body felt heavy. Blood like lead, weighing her down. She blinked, slow and deliberate as she tried to steady her wand arm. When her eyes opened, Draco was standing behind Malcolm with his wand drawn and rage etching the lines of his face.

“You’re nothing but a dirty, magic-stealing, disgusting piece of Muggle  _ filth _ !” Baddock took a step forward and Malfoy stepped along with him.

Hermione forced herself to speak. It was like choking around jagged glass. “Stop. Stop now.”

She kept her eyes on Draco until he paused in his step. She really didn’t want him to  _ rescue _ her. Hermione had to handle this herself, had to stand up for herself and  _ try _ to be better. Her shoulders rose, heart frenzied, when she ducked her chin and silently told Malfoy that she was okay. That she had this.

Draco lowered his wand, a twitch at the corner of his lips. He didn’t move, didn’t turn away, but remained standing, watching. She flicked her gaze from him to Baddock.

“ _ Stop! Stop! _ ” he taunted her in a faux whiny pitch. “Is that how you begged Lestrange when she carved into your arm?”

Her gaze darted to the angry crimson scar on her forearm.  _ Mudblood _ glared back at her through misty eyes. Everything felt hazy. Her mind screamed insults at her, driving home every single bad thing that people like Baddock have told her throughout her life. At her Muggle primary school, being taunted for her teeth and her hair, her first year at Hogwarts and Malfoy’s jeers — when she had heard Mudblood for the first time — to now, where it was permanently a part of her in such a vile and sickening way.

“I think Lestrange did everyone a favor. Now everyone will know exactly what you are — nothing but a mental Mudblood that parades around as a Malfoy whore.” 

The words filtered in. She reacted immediately. Mercilessly. Hermione stabbed her wand forward. No spell left her lips. Her mind was a whirlwind of rage, spiralling down and down and down until she heard Baddock’s body hit the ground. A sickening thud followed by the crack of skull against concrete.

“Shit!” Draco lunged forward and crouched at Baddock’s head. 

Hermione took a step forward and her hand flew to her mouth, wand clattering to the floor. “Is he—”

Draco pressed two fingers just below Baddock’s jaw. The planes of his throat constricted and his lips tugged down. A beat passed, then two. Bile rose in her throat as Draco turned his face to hers again.

“Get out of here, Granger.” Draco’s voice was low as his gaze skimmed the corridor to see if there were any witnesses. “Go! Now!”

She started, but her knees locked into place. The world darkened around her. She wobbled on the spot. “Malfoy. Is he—”

“Run to the dorm and lock yourself in.” He stood and pulled his wand, lifting Malcolm’s body from the floor. “You were  _ never here _ . Do you understand? Go.”

Hermione stole a greedy breath and stared down at the prone boy on the floor. She warred with herself — call a professor or run? Leave Malfoy to clean up her mess or stay and take responsibility for her actions?

“I can’t just leave him,” she answered finally, approaching Draco and Baddock with her heart fluttering in her throat. “Is he alive? Draco, please, just answer me that.”

She saw him sigh. Watched as he rolled his neck until it popped. Stared in wonder as Baddock’s body hovered as if lying on an invisible surface.

“Granger.” He turned to her, eyes tight as he took in her shaking body. “I’ve got this, alright? Go. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. He got what he deserved after saying that shit to you. Now go. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Her chin wobbled and she opened her mouth to speak. At his narrowed eyes, she snapped it shut again and grabbed her wand from the floor. Without another word, she tore through the corridor toward their dormitories. She shook the whole way there; up the staircase, nearly tripping on the trick step, round the bends of the halls as portraits shouted after her to slow down. She didn’t stop until she was sitting on her four-poster bed with her knees drawn up to her chin. A full panic attack slammed into her without mercy.

What had she done? She’d done it without thinking, without considering the consequences. Her magic overtook her and protected her. But it was dark, it had to be. Baddock was still alive, but she had no idea what curse she’d used. What if he never woke up? What if they expelled her from school — or worse, threw her into Azkaban? Living with these thoughts every second of every day would kill her. She couldn’t — couldn’t  _ stomach _ the thought. She retched. Bile slicked her throat and burned until her eyes watered.

She couldn’t sit there and wonder what would happen if someone found out what she did. She had to face it, had to face Baddock. With legs like jelly and her vision blurred, she pushed herself off her bed and moved slowly through the dorm. Ginny called her name, but she ignored it. The door swung open just as she reached for the handle. Hermione stopped dead.

Draco stood before her. Black trousers, green shirt, messy hair. She thought he looked sleepy. It was, of course, still so early in the morning. His gaze swept through the dorm behind her and then rested on her eyes. He nodded his head to the side and she followed him as he led her away from the dorm.

He walked until they reached an old, abandoned classroom and ushered her inside. After casting a thorough succession of locking and privacy charms, he turned and reached out for her. She shied away, blood rushing through her ears, terrified of what he was going to say to her. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and she sniffed them back. She didn’t want him to see her cry. He’d seen enough of her weakness.

Hermione stepped back as Malfoy stepped toward her. She shook her head, curls whipping around her scrunched face as she tried like hell to hold back her tears.

“Granger…” it was soft, a delicate whisper, as he reached out again and took her by the elbow until she was pressed against him. He pulled her arms around his waist and then wrapped his own arms around her shoulders. “It’s alright. He’s okay. It was only a stunner. He’ll be alright.”

At his words, her body sagged against him and she held him so tightly that she felt him wince. Hermione cried in earnest then, relief and fear mixing together, overwhelming all rational thought. He told her quietly, against her thick, unruly, tangled curls that he had her, that he wasn’t going anywhere until she was okay.

“Madam Pomfrey asked about you,” he whispered as his arms flexed around her. She burrowed into his warmth and felt the wet stain of tears against his shirt. “She gave me a potion for you, a calming draught.”

“I don’t want it.” It was stubborn, she knew, but there were so many horror stories of post-war addiction to potions. George, Lee, Dean, Luna. They’d all gone through it. Hermione refused to be another statistic. “Give it back to her.”

There was a rumble in his chest. A harsh chuckle against her head. She pulled back, though her hands remained firmly on his sides. Fingers splayed along the ridges of his rib cage. Her vision was still watery, but she swore he had a small smile at the turn of his lips.

“Stubborn witch.”

* * *

  
Word traveled fast through Hogwarts. Hermione Granger, defender of Muggleborns. She thought, perhaps, Draco helped spur the rumors on. Baddock limping through the corridors also helped. He stared at her in the Great Hall, but ducked his head down when she caught him. Hermione was sure he’d return to tormenting her again, but even after a month, he continued to avoid her.

Ginny nicknamed her the Snake Slayer. Hermione reprimanded her every time her ginger best friend would snicker and proclaim her the Champion of Muggles, Slayer of Snakes.

First years and eighth years alike approached her. Thanked her for standing up to the wizards who hadn’t realized they lost the Blood War.  _ The Blood War _ , she thought. Apt, but not over. They would no doubt fight for decades more, for equality and for proper treatment. There were so many laws to overturn, so many entrenched beliefs to change.

And Draco promised to help her. He wrote to his mother and had her send books upon books that detailed Pureblood law and tradition. She wrote to the Ministry, pleading for Kingsley to look into and start re-writing the laws.

When Quidditch started, Hermione would stroll down to the pitch and watch Seamus and Draco practice on the newly formed eighth year team. Ginny acted as their referee at the request of the Headmistress, since ‘house unity’ was still tenuous and fragile throughout the school. She’d work on her coursework or respond to Ministry letters and occasionally she’d cheer them on, though she had no idea what she was cheering for because she’d get so lost in what she was doing.

By the time the Christmas holidays neared, Hermione had corresponded with so many Ministry officials that she had piles of letters all over her dorm. The sheer amount of work she had to do kept her so occupied, there was no time to panic. Whenever her hands would quake, she’d breathe. In for four, out for six. She’d pause, gain her bearings, and ground herself. Multitasking became her potion of choice.

It was the middle of December when things changed again.

Hermione walked to the Quidditch pitch, dutifully ignoring the triggers on the grounds of Hogwarts that were known to set off her anxiety. She’d created little pockets of safety within the castle. Longer routes to classrooms to avoid triggers, secret passages to hide in when things got to be too much. But the walk to the Quidditch pitch, chilly and wet as snow floated down and melted before hitting the ground, was peaceful. Routine, even.

She found a seat near the middle of the stands and cast a warming charm around her as she watched the entire eighth year team practice for the afternoon. Every once in a while, Draco would zoom by her, flash that wolfish, heart-stopping grin, and fly off after the snitch.

When she beamed into her scarf, Ginny caught her eye and gave her a knowing smile, one that said she knew precisely how much Hermione had been enjoying Draco’s company lately. Hermione’s eyes sparkled as a blush rose up her throat and to her cheeks. Ginny shook her head, a playful gesture, and flew in between the hoops as the quaffle was raced back down her side of the pitch.

Practice ended an hour later when Draco caught the snitch. The team landed on the ground, all pink-faced and wind whipped as Hermione took the stairs down two at a time. Ginny, Dean, Theo, Draco, Seamus, Mandy, Susan, and Justin formed a circle and spoke in low whispers until they broke apart. Ginny tossed her a wink as she tore off toward the castle with everyone else in tow except Draco.

He approached her with an easy, lopsided smile and wind-sculpted hair. “I have to admit that it’s going to feel good to beat the Slytherin team tomorrow.”

Hermione laughed and pulled her cloak tighter around her frame. “Isn’t that blasphemy?”

Draco shrugged and stepped closer. “Probably. You came to my practice today. Isn’t that blasphemy?”

She shrugged, playfully smiling at him. “Probably.”

He chuckled deeply and licked at the corner of his lips. “Have you got any plans tonight?”

“Hot date with the library, I’m afraid.” She hooked her arm through his and allowed him to lead her through the pitch to an area of coverage under the stands. Just to get out of the snow, she told herself, even as her heart thudded like birds’ wings in her chest. “I’m finally ahead on my Arithmancy work.”

“There’s no Arithmancy homework until after the holidays,” he reminded her as if he didn’t know that she was going to scoff — which she did. He rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. How about after? There’s a party in Ravenclaw.”

“Not interested.” Her back hit a tall wooden post and Draco towered over her. Something pleasant flooded her, a haze of sorts that settled around her as Draco ducked his head down to eye level.

“How about another go at Wizard Chess?” His breath fanned against her cheeks. He smelled of snow and wind. 

She was heady. Lightheaded. Zinging with magic at his proximity. “You, me, firewhiskey?” she asked him breathlessly.

There was an eagerness inside of her that she hadn’t felt since  _ before _ . The thrill of adventure that she’d always felt with Harry and Ron. It sparked within her as Draco drew closer and gripped onto her hips with slender, exacting fingers. She breathed, Merlin she  _ had to breathe _ , but her lungs wouldn’t function and she thought she was going to faint from holding her breath.

Draco’s nose skimmed her cheek from nose to ear. “In and out, love. Like we’ve practiced.”

He set the pattern for her and something warm settled into her lower abdomen. She followed his breathing and placed her hands on his chest. The staccato rhythm of her heart slowed to mimic his.

She’d never truly be rid of the demons that haunted the dark edges of her mind. But Draco’s presence had helped her combat them a little bit every day. From the moment he’d said those two words to her in the library all those weeks ago —  _ ‘I apologize’  _ — he’d been there, with his resolute calm and reserved compassion. Although Hermione felt that, perhaps, she was finally strong enough to fight her demons on her own.

But, as his lips finally,  _ slowly _ touched hers, Hermione realized that it wasn't a question of needing him anymore. 

Even if she was  _ able _ to let him go, she really, really didn't want to.


End file.
